


Tomorrow comes Today

by LuciferIsSatan



Series: Fahrenheit [1]
Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:38:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This infatuation that Montag has been dealing with was getting entirely out of hand, he was a happily married man, and his Captain would surely never look him in the eye again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow comes Today

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, but seriously, my account is all SPN related fanfiction, but I found this little gem a bit ago that I had written earlier in the year. We were assigned to read Fahrenheit 451 for class at the beginning of the year and my friends and I all felt that there was something going on between Guy Montag and Beatty, so they had asked me to write a quick little one-shot of them together and it ended up lasting about 15 pages. So here was my take on what should have happened, and I hope you all enjoy.

Montag wasn’t sure why he was so uncomfortable. He’s been to the firehouse, worked here since he was 20, a good 10 years of his life was spent in these seats, these clothes, between these fours walls, and up and down that metal pole. This was his life, his meaning, everything he worked for, but something just didn’t seem _right_. This wasn’t the first time, Montag noted, that he felt out of place. No, he felt wrong everywhere; At home, in the street, on the road, in bed, and even with his wife. Everyone made him edgy, the areas made him feel filthy, while the idle minds of those who surrounded him made him feel empty.

He would sometimes sit around his home, on his days off, and think of Clarisse. She didn’t make him feel empty, or dirty, he didn’t _feel_ wrong around her. She had spunk, for a kid anyways, something that was abnormal, but all around right. Nothing was wrong with her; at least, he didn’t feel wrong around her. She could have been like a sister to him, if her and her family didn’t disappear off the face of the Earth. A distant relative, a long lost friend, she was kind and very vivid in conversation, and it’s been a while since anyone had even bothered to strike one. 

Well, that’s a lie. There is Beatty.

Montag felt his face grow a little warm, cursing at himself under his breath. He wasn’t sure why this happened, why his face grew a little warmer, or his palms a little sweatier. It was ridiculous, completely and utterly so. He didn’t understand why his body reacted in such a way, and it was even worse when his Captain was near him. Some would call it fear, or respect; others would call it a Crush.

“A crush!” Montag would say, “Now don’t be ridiculous!” He was a straight happily married man! Not happily, no, Clarisse had taken that word away from him, plundered it and buried it in a small box that she left with. Both never to be found.

Montag wanted to be happy, truly, he did. He had never realized that he wasn’t, at least not until it smashed into him like a train, before fleeting as far away from him as it could. Montag had to find a solace, he had to find something that spoke to him, someone. After Clarisse had.. well, disappeared, there being no proof of her death, beside what Beatty had explained, he hadn’t been able to feel that small amount of joy. He’d tried going through those books, but he couldn’t find the meaning, the purpose, regardless of what Faber had told him. He’ll keep looking, he will, just like he promised the old man, but they can’t go on with the plan until he’s figured it out.

Until he gets his priorities straight.

Montag dragged a tired hand through his dark disheveled hair, the rough edges gaining a soft relief from the smooth texture. He was so tired, so very very tired. The day had been long, their having been an odd amount of alarms going off. It was strange, now that he thought about it, how many people still looked into books. The number was small, but it was still there. Still a wonder to him, which made going to each job harder each and every single time. He disliked burning books now, almost as much as he loved burning them a few weeks back. It was like his life flopped without his knowing and it was driving him mad.

Beatty had crossed the large office, in mad conversation with John Smith, a new comer, a rookie that had just started in the office. It seemed that the Captain was trying to get the kid into the swing of things. Montag pushed himself upright in his seat, his eyes wandering from Beatty’s face, eyes connecting with his Captain for a moment, who, still in mid sentence, smirked at him, giving Montag a wink before turning his attention back to the rookie. Heat traveled up the firemen’s neck, who quickly averted his gaze. This was the 6th time he’s been caught looking, and the 7th time he’d attempted it. His hands grabbed at a few loose papers on his desk, grabbing the pale white sheets and stacking them properly.

The Firehouse didn’t have to do much paperwork, just quick files now and again when something at the job went wrong. Which rarely ever happened. The woman, Mrs. Blake, Montag recalled, was a rare thing that went wrong. She wasn’t supposed to have been there, she wasn’t, but she was and now everyone had to file a report to the police with what they recalled happening. Words spoken, if she seemed homicidal, or clinically insane, to set the story and people to rest. Nobody liked it went something went wrong, they lived in a fast paced society where only happiness prospers, and anything otherwise was to be incinerated and debt with quickly.

It was only black and white, right and wrong; in this society there was simply no in-between or fuzzy middle ground. Beatty especially loved to point out the flaws, just as much as he loved when everything fell directly into place. There was no denying the purpose and reason to why their lives were like this, but there was no reason to try. The fire was what society would call ‘wrong’ only because someone died, but nobody would bat an eye; simply because it didn’t ‘ _happen to me_ ’.

Scribbling down the details from the burning, he explained the procedure they had done, the words exchanged, leaving out the small details, such as the book he had taken, and the feelings of guilt he had experienced. It was unbecoming, and he didn’t need to be chewed out more than he already was. Everyone else had finished hours ago, writing down the basics before getting back to their game of cards. Montag was good a poker, Beatty had taught him a thing or two, but that didn’t mean he necessarily enjoyed the game. Laughter and small chit-chat was filling the room, some swear words were passed before a pat between good friends. Faces of a thousand real and imaginary fires playing over everyone’s eyes, seemingly distant and there all the same.

Montag kept to himself, for the most part, he had been recently. Nobody really noticed, at least, Montag didn’t believe anyone had. He was a bit quiet before his book fascination had stayed into place, so nobody seemed to bat an eye. His signature was scrawled out in simple curved letters, not hearing the footsteps descending in his direction before a black clad hip made contact with the edge of his desk, a man sitting down. Montags eyes darted upward to get a better view, his breath hitching, ever so slightly, at the sight of his Captain.

“Hey, Montag,” He greeted kindly, “Haven’t been speakin’ much, something on your mind? You getting sick again?” He questioned, crossing his arms lazily across his torso.

Montag shook his head, “Haven’t much to say.”

A chuckle escaped the Captains lips, “Nonsense! There is always something to talk about. Weather, for instance, Fire, for another.”

Montag chuckled softly, shaking his head, “Then there is simply nothing that I would talk about.”

Beatty gave him a thoughtful smile, a pause before he opened his mouth to speak. “Well, would you mind heading to my office after hours? I have a few things I would like to discuss with you.”

Montag felt his mouth go dry, but tried to keep an upright and confident façade; however, he was certain that Beatty saw his flash of panic; he was always good at noticing small things. “Yes, sir.” He replied.

A hand left a friendly pat against the tabletop, pushing off of the table and moving away. Beatty walked over to the large table where the other Firemen sat, calling them to let them know to deck him in. Montag watched the mans hips sway ever so slightly as he stepped up to the table, mentally scowling at himself when he realized. Montag averted his gaze, turning to the papers lying on his desk, snatching them in a graceful and firm grip. Patting them down, he straightened the edges, gripping the handle to the desk’s drawer, sliding it open and placing the pages inside. Montag gave them a sideways glance before sliding the metal drawer shut.

-451-

The door closed for nearly the last time that night, the last firemen, besides himself, to leave. Having bid him goodnight as he stepped through the door.

Montag grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, idly fingering the _451_ badge that had been sewn onto the arm so delicately. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, Montag shrugged it onto his shoulders, setting his hat onto the side of his desk.

Looking over, the firemen gazed at the large metal office door, the lights that hadn’t been shut off reflecting in a vibrant line down the center, a bit towards the left.

Montag had been thinking about this meeting for a while now, having debated why his captain would want to talk to him, even after hours when no one would be around. ‘ _He probably knows about that books_ ’ Montag had thought ‘ _He’s probably planning on saving my dignity by arresting me while no one was looking._ ’ ‘ _Or kill me_ ’ The last thought made the firemen deeply uncomfortable, but if this was the case, then Beatty was doing him a favor.

Stepping up to the large door, his captains name scrawled out and carved in neat fine tipped letters, raising his hand, before, abet hesitantly, knocking three times.

The world behind the door was silent a moment, “Come in.” Came the call, the familiar voice reverberating from behind the metal. Montag gripped a firm hand onto the cold steel door handle, pressing downward and pushing the door open, the metal creaking in protest.

“Hello, Montag.” His captain greeted, standing in front of his desk, leaning against the metal by his angled hip, arms crossed across his broad chest. Montag noted that he was still in uniform, hat placed delicately to the side.

“Sit,” The captain commented, not a demand, but a suggestion. Montag merely nodded, taking the seat down in front of Beatty, awkwardly looking up at the taller man.

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” Beatty asked, tilting his head to the side slightly in an unnaturally charming manor. Montag shook his head.

“I didn’t expect that you would, but then again, perhaps you had a few ideas.” Beatty let out a friendly chuckle, forcing Montag into a false sense of security. His muscles relaxing, if only just slightly.

“I’ve been thinking,” Beatty began, “A lot, and you know how it is with thinkers, the queer ones, the ones that rarely happen.” He waved an idle hand before uncrossing his arms properly, resting them up against the side of the desk. “They think they have the world under their nose, under their very thumb! Ridiculous, isn’t it?” He chuckled, “But, not me, I’ve known the world, its ups and downs, and every crack and crevice in between, and let me tell you how ugly everything can get. It’s nearly disgusting.”

“I wanted to discuss something’s, that I can only discuss with certain people.” He tilted his head to the other side, his shoulder relaxing in the process. “Those firemen out there, in the world, they won’t hear a word of it. But you-“ He stepped away from the desk. “You’re different Montag.”

“Different?” The word hung around the firemen’s tongue loosely, confused. He was tasting the waters, tapping around them, but he could see Beatty getting ready to dive.

“Better, more-“ Beatty waved a curious hand, “Interesting, than the others. When I speak of books, or quote century old novels. I see interest behind your eyes, and not just any interest.” There was a glint behind the Captains eyes, smirking softly, “There’s a certain innocent excitement I see, and not just for the burning. You enjoy my arrogant quoting because you like what you hear.”

“Captain-“

“Beatty,” Beatty interrupted holding up a rough, spider-like hand, “Please, Montag. We’re off duty.”

Montag stuttered on the name a moment, uncertainty crossing his face before settling. “Beatty, I don’t believe I understand-“

“Oh, you know perfectly well what I’m getting at Guy.” A soft shudder shot up the firemen’s spine at the sound of his first name.

“You don’t imagine fire, do you Montag?” Beatty began, “You know, when you think of books?”

“There must be some sort of mistake-“ Montag interrupted, attempting to stand up. A surge of panic washed around the firemen’s heart, and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He felt like a deer caught in head-lights and all he wanted to do was get as far away as he absolutely could.

However, Beatty raised a quick snake-like arm, snapping forward and gently pressing against the firemen’s arm. “There’s no cause for alarm,” He began, his voice an octave softer than before. “Calm down, you’re not in any trouble.”

Montag was in the position of either standing completely up, and nearly sitting down, hovering somewhere in the middle. Slowly, the hand on his shoulder pressed him downward once again, and Montag found himself sitting.

“I told you before you entered, I’m not here to hound you.”

“Then what do you need me for?” Montag asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“To talk,” Beatty smiled, realizing that Montag wasn’t going to let his guard lower any further. “I just want to talk.”

“You speak of books-“

“I speak of common interest.” Beatty amended, watching the color drain from the firemen’s cheeks. He looked absolutely adorable with that look of panic, of fear; Beatty drank in the sight. Montag looked so much younger when he was afraid.

“Yes, Montag.” Beatty eventually sighed, exaggerating the out-burst of air, “I know you’re dying to scratch that itch. But, I’m telling you, no-“ He stepped slightly closer, his legs inches from touching the younger mans knees. “-I’m warning you, as a concerned friend, and neighbor.” He gazed at the man, nearly pleadingly, “don’t open those books.” ‘ _don’t open those books_ ’ Montag thought, ‘ _such curious language._ ’ The firemen frowned. ‘ _He_ couldn’t _know of those books. That’s impossible._ ’

“Cap-“ Montag coughed, “ _Beatty_ , to what exactly are you referring?”

“Oh, come now Montag! You’re like me.” Beatty grinned, “You own a few books, most firemen don’t, but us-“ He made a gesture between the two of them, “We’re those queer ones that have to have a few, never to read of course,” He made a small roll of the shoulders, “But to just own, to tell ourselves that we can fight the urge, or-“ He smiled down at the man, “to sate it.”

Montag attempted to get up again, but that firm hand on his shoulder prevented him from doing so.

“Oh no you don’t, we’re not finished yet.”

“But, Captian-“

“Beatty, please.”

“ _Beatty,_ ” Montag urged the word out, “Mildred-“

“Won’t be worried, she’s busy with the family-“

“I have-“

“You have nothing better to do,” Beatty reached his other hand forward taking ahold of both shoulders, “All you have to do is go home and sleep. You have plenty of time to talk to me.”

Montag felt stuck between a rock and a hard thing, every time he tried to move, Beatty would hold him firmly in place. “Beatty, I really should be heading home-“

“Stay a while!” Beatty exclaimed, “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to get off my chest, and who am I to miss the perfect opportunity?” Montag looked up at his Captain, and eventually sighed. He wasn’t going to get out of here unless he played along. Taking stride, he leaned back into his seat, but to his utter surprise, Beatty came down with him, the older man taking his seat upon his lap. Montag felt the mans legs as they slide up beside his own, a strong heat brushing over his clothed skin connecting to his thigh. The firemen opened his mouth to say something, to protest, attempt some sort of resentment against his current situation, but instead, a high pitched gasped left his open lips, struggling to get a hold of his sense of reality. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be. He must have missed some sort of sign along the way; and all he was getting were these mixed signals that all seem like white noise.

“That’s more like it,” Beatty’s voice was noticeably lower, more controlled with each slowly pronounced syllable. “See, I knew I could read you.”

“Wha-“

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” He murmured, adjusting his hips, the pressure causing the younger firemen to arch his back against the fine-leathered seat. “And not just today, might I add, but for quite some time you’ve been giving me this _deliciously_ troubled face.”

“For a while,” Beatty continued, “I just thought you were trying to figure something out, or there was simply something on my face.. and arse.” He chuckled, feeling Montag tense up underneath him. “But no,” His eyes glanced up to gaze at the firemen once again, “I was finally able to read that page of yours, that _façade_ you hid behind a mask.” Beatty drank in the sight of Montag, watching as his pale cheeks began to grow in this rosy color, traveling up his neck to his jawline, before settling around his high cheek-bones. Watching in near aroused bemusement as his eyes seemed to flick around, at everywhere but his Captain.

“People have talked about mixed signals, Montag. People have attempted them, and some have succeeded, but you-“ He rolled his hips, “You were the best.”

“Beatty..” Montags voice hitched and cut off when he felt pressure grow against his groin, this impossible heat seemingly devouring his sense’s in ways that Mildred couldn’t even compete.

“You know,” Beatty began once again, his low voices drifting in the office, “There’s something so different, so.. _unique_ , about men. That I could never pin-point the exact reason as to why they were so.. _better_.” Montag’s eyes snapped up, leveling with his Captains. Beatty looked into those hazed over, dilated, blown pupils and smiled. “I always imagined it was their will to fight, the hard-headedness, or the dominance of a male. It was how society saw them, the takers, while the women were the givers. But no-“ He squeezed Montags shoulders, rocking his hips ever so slightly, adding friction between their bodies.

“No, Montag. Do you want to know what makes us men so.. appealing?” Hands snapped forward, blunt fingertips digging into the older mans thighs at a particularly rough thrust of the hips. “It’s the angles,” Beatty dipped his head, cheeks brushing up against each other, breathing into the younger firemen’s ear. Montag could feel the breath dancing off of his skin, leaving an impossibly thin sheet of heat against his flesh.

“It’s the power they hold, the immense _strength_ a man has, compared to a women’s utterly weak and plentiful curves. They’re so soft, but people like us need it _rough_.” He dug his finger-tips into his shoulders, his hips ground against Montags, his thighs pressing almost impossibly by the younger mans growing arousal. Montag opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a breathy moan, unconsciously moving against the man above him. Beatty grinned down, feeling the roll of hips underneath. Montag looked absolutely precious. His cheeks noticeably growing flushed, thin lips parted wetly with his eyes glazed over, wide and profoundly dilated it was almost innocent.

“Women can’t do that for us, Montag.” He watched in amusement as the younger firemen shook his head, almost frantically. “Women have too many curves, their bodies are too subtle, and smooth. Terribly agitating against skin so burn it always melts-“ Beatty’s voice hitched cutting him off completely when strong hands moved from his hips, sinking from his waist to his inner thigh. Montags eyes darted upward at the sound, feeling whatever heat he had left travel south, making concentrating on ‘ _getting away_ ’ to be a far off memory, or some shattered dream.

The smirk had fallen from his Captains face, as the man tried to get a grip, having almost lost it all in his insistent rutting.

“Montag-“ Beatty attempted to start again, but the hands quickly pulled away from his inner thigh, to be snapped beside his head. Strong hands gripped at the back of the older mans head, intertwining themselves in the dark soft locks of hair before pulling the head forward with almost surprising strength and zero resistance. Beatty nearly squeaked in surprise, feeling that desperate heat against his mouth, something hot and wet pressing and parting his lips and he opened his mouth willingly. Mouths moved against each other, hungrily, desperately, needy. Beatty had lost the battle between mouths and allowing the man below him to take control, the taste of cinnamon and butterscotch filling the captains mouth, melting further into blissful oblivion.

Beatty pressed his hands over Montags black uniform clad chest, shifting his palms over his shoulders before wrapping his arms around the mans neck, holding their faces firmer and more placed together. Biting the younger firemen’s lower lip, hips pressing urgently against the others, Beatty’s hands quickly dissolved from their original position, snapping down to Montags belt and pulling at the dark leather. Montag groaned at the touch, thrusting his hips further, desperate for that sweet friction. Beatty broke off the kiss for air, their lips parting with an obscene pop before hands were gripping and grabbing at clothing.

Montag clumsily tugged at his Captains pants, a misplaced elbow here, an unnecessary hard tug there, and soon with a factitious noise, the leather wrapped around Beatty’s waist slid away, leather against fabric, and a cool hand reaching inside of tight waist-hugging pants. Montag slid cold hands against unnaturally warm skin, his fingers moving from the waistband before tugging the pants downward, reaching inside of the front and grasping at his Captains obviously aching arousal.

Beatty was taken aback by the cold hand surrounding him, a broken heated moan passing his kiss-swollen lips, hands pausing at Montags hips and squeezed involuntarily.

Montag had been thinking about this for longer than he’d like to admit. He’d deny his feelings, he’d deny ever fantasizing about this beautiful man above him, but it’s so hard to deny how much he’s enjoying himself. More than he could ever possibly admit. Beatty rutted against the hand a moment, his hips bucking against the cool flesh.

Blunt finger tips removed themselves from the others hips before quickly making haste with the younger mans belt, practically ripping it off in graceful skilled movements.

Beatty tore at the mans button, quickly ripping open the zipper before reaching his hands inside of the containment. Hands slipping inside the impossible heat and grasped as something brushed against the palm of his hand.

“Beatty..” Montag moaned out, his hips bucking up into that delicate touch, warm spider-like fingers brushing against sensitive skin. Montag slipped his hands away from the man's aching arousal, receiving a weak whine of protest from his Captain. Montag moved his fingers from the inside of his Captains pants, sliding the digits over the waist and eliciting these delightful shudders and noises from the man above him. His hands halted right over the older mans round arse, wrists resting uncomfortably against Beattys angular hips. Pushing the pants lower, pale flushed skin revealed itself, crisp and perfect, and for some odd reason, Montag thought of that first layer of snow upon a sidewalk when he finally made it home after a long day of work. The moon dancing off of it when he finally made it inside of his warm and simple home.

Home…

Home.

_Mildred._

Montag felt the dawning strike him like a lightning bolt, removing his hands from his Captains pants as if having them in there in the first place had physically burned him. _He was a married man! What in Gods name was he doing trying to plow drive into his Captain? Has he gone off his rocker? If Mildred were to find out.._

If Mildred were to find out.

Hm. Well, actually, Montag wasn’t all that bothered by the idea. He hadn’t the slightest idea if Mildred had been faithful to him. She certainly didn’t act like it; Her and going on and on about the family, and some nice people she had met at the market. A Mr. Novak, if Montag remembers correctly. She could go on and on about this character. If Mildred couldn’t, or simply wouldn’t, stay truthful to their vows, then why on Gods green earth should he then, eh? Montag looked up at his captain, his normally hard and composed exterior had been wracked to shambles by just a few lousy touches to his aching erection, and suddenly he’s all for the taking.

 _How long ago had the sex fallen apart for him?_ Montag thought idly, running a hand up the mans clothed side. _How long has it been since someone had given him this much attention?_ Montag could feel his groin ache at the thought, _How long has it been since Mildred bedded me? Months ago! Too long. Probably longer for Beatty_. Montag brought his hands down to stroke the skin between Beattys thighs that hadn’t been revealed by stolen clothing, a deep purr of a moan escaping his Captains lips, the noise driving Montag absolutely _mad._

The Firemen watched Beattys face as each touch sent him nearly over the edge, and Montag had to take a moment before putting them back into safer waters. His lips were swollen, red and moist, parted in a silent gasp; his Captain's high cheekbones were flushed a deep red, looking almost scarlet against his snow white pale skin that had witnessed so many fires. His eyes were wide, pupils blown up as the deep chocolate brown was swallowed up in a hazed over gaze, staring at Montag in something akin to worship. _He’s so beautiful_ , Montag heard his mind wallowing, and all he wanted to do was run his hands all over until there was nothing left his hands hadn’t touched, then he’d do it again and again until his hands were raw and Beatty was begging him.

_God! To hear him beg..-_

“Montag..” Beatty breathed, his voice ground out and urgent, hips rocking against his own almost desperately, all signs of composure and dignity having flown out the window for the both of them as hands began to move everywhere and nowhere at once.

Clothing, piece by piece, were tossed in random directions, warm hands running over tight and pale skin, smooth and angular hips, muscle that was harder and far stronger than that of a woman’s subtle curves and _fuck_ if everything didn’t feel right. Montag was in another world entirely as hands gripped and groped, as sweet nothings were mumbled huskily into his ear, bodies moving together forming a slick sheen of sweat against skin, the contact the motions, flesh against flesh; that sweet skin to skin contact they needed so desperately.

Beatty dragged his tongue over his rough hand, dragging out the saliva before reaching between their bodies, running the self-made lubricant against the younger man's leaking arousal, running his fingers roughly over the sensitive sliver of flesh before retracting his hand. Preparation set, foreheads pressed against each other as they shared air, and tried to get the nerve up for someone to begin. Beatty brought his arms upward once again, intertwining his fingers into Montags dark hair, strong hands grasping at his hips as tongues instinctively began battling against one another. Montag squeezed his hips, mouths nibbling and biting, moving forcefully against one another, Beatty moving his tongue around Montags stubble jaw-line, trailing heated yet sloppy kisses down the man's jaw-line and onto his neck. Montag prevented from any more noises pushing past his lips, and pulled his Captain closer to his aching erection, almost impossibly so. Beatty barely registering the pressure until a hand squeezed at his rear, a deep animalistic groan breaking past his throat and reverberating in his lungs, and Montag could feel the vibrations from the mouth latched to his neck.

Beatty pressed his hips down further, feeling the tip of the firemen’s erection against his puckered hole, hissing under his breath, feeling those delicious strong hands grip his hips tight, before practically escorting him downward. Beatty and Montag moaned out in unison, although Beatty’s sounded somewhat more pained, his voice going an active or two lower.

“Beatty,” Montag breathed out, hearing the slight hitch in his captains breathing, before it turned somewhat heavier. Montag almost lost himself when the man turned his hips in a circular motion, only squeezing his hands tighter around the man's waist, holding him firmly in place. Once he finally came back to himself, for the most part, he could hear the older males breathing coming out hard and deep.

All thought was lost and quickly forgotten when his Captain lifted his hips and slammed them back down, both men crying out, one less dignified than the other. The fingers in Montags hair tightened, as his Captain braced himself, his thighs working away as he continued to impale himself on Montags aching erection. Montag bucked forward, feeling the heat from between his legs driving him insane, the tightness gripping at him into oblivion, shoving himself deeper and deeper, heavy eyes watching this elegant and heavily heated creature on him, the way his face darkened, deep eyes blown up, muscles clenching themselves around the firemen. Nails dug into skin, scratching, biting, frantic movement, so tight, _fuck._

Noises were erupting from everywhere and neither could tell whom it was coming from.

Beatty thrust downward hard against the man, hips rutting and grinding in animalistic movements that felt deeply primal. Skin moving against skin, slapping against one another almost obscenely, blunt nails at his scalp, and he was sure whether or not he was bleeding, but he could find enough room to care because everything felt so fucking good, and real, and Montag couldn’t remember feeling so real in his entire life. Not when burning books, not with Mildred, not even with that teenage child whose name is so far from his mind it’s not even funny. His hesitance was gone, any regrets had long since left him, and his shoulders felt lifted of a million weights with every movement his Captain made, and for once Montag didn’t care, and let himself fall into the bliss and pure heat that was all around Beatty.

Beatty allowed a deep moan to vibrate through his chest, and everything was faster, and deeper, and sweeter, and better. His thighs moving against the firemen’s to the sound of some drums neither would ever wish to hear, before soft wet swollen lips captured his own once again, muffling a strong moan as he climaxed onto their stomachs, the wet heat splashing against both men. Montag could feel everything tighten impossibly around him, forcing him through to his own blissful release.

He moaned deeply into his Captains mouth, their hips and thighs moving together, riding out the waves of their orgasm, before their bodies finally relaxed to a halt.

Breathing mingling together as they finally came off of it, bodies slumping together, chests heaving, and limbs tangled together, Beatty let out a snort. Montag quirked a tired eyebrow that he knew his Captain wouldn’t be able to see, by where the mans head placement was, buried in the crook of his neck, he instead settled with a wavered ‘what?’

“This, us, them, you and I.” Beatty chuckled, and Montag still didn’t understand why. “I don’t think I ever imagined that our meetings would end up this way, how about you, Montag?” The firemen lazily shook his head, feeling the man shift in his arms before he had a face full of Beatty. A chaste kiss was placed on his lips, something sweet, and far less desperate. An endearment, not a demand, something someone would do to a married one, or a sweet tone to a lover.

“You know,” Beatty began once again, “I could get used to this, to us..” He wavered a moment, almost as if contemplating, “If that would be okay with you.. of course.”

Montag looked at his Captain, seeing that sincerity in his face and voice. The way he looked at him was nothing short of admiration and respect, he looked at Montag with such _worship_ , he was almost certain that Beatty felt nearly unworthy to be near him. Montag felt his heart swell up; nobody ever looked at him the way Beatty did.

When he’d burn books, play poker, hell.. even staple papers, Beatty always had that look in his eyes. It was only now that he realized what it meant. Mildred didn’t even look at him the way this man, did. She only had that glint in her eye when someone on the family said something painfully witty, or someone on the family turned out to look like a younger version of Mark Pellegrino, or Jensen Ackles. She didn’t give him any more of a look than his neighbors. Always indifferent, distant. Everyone was always so distant. Montag always felt so uncomfortable, because nobody was shifting in reality anymore, everyone was someplace else, even when they were there.

Beatty wasn’t distant. No. He was always right there, alert, in charge. He saw the world for what it was; he saw the flaws, and even the beauty, not hiding behind a TV screen. He knew how destructive the world could be, and wasn’t brainwashed like everyone else. Beatty was here.

He was real, and that was more than enough for Montag.

“Yeah,” Montag finally got out, looking into his Captain's face, “I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> I did a bit of editing here and there and hopefully it flows, if not, let me know. But yeah, I had printed this out during the school year and handed it out to anyone who asked to read it. I got lots of good feed back from my friends, and I never really thought about posting it before, so here you go. I tried warning and tagging this as much as possible, so I hope it wasn't too much or too bad. Thank you for reading, any constructive criticism or what have you is welcome, if you're furious with me tampering with Ray Bradbury's characters feel free to yell at me, or anything else that comes to mind. If anything seem's at all OCC I'm really sorry, it was unintentional.  
> Thank you for reading anyhow. ^^


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